


In Our Bedroom After the War

by like_an_old_friend



Category: Historical RPF, The White Princess (TV), The White Queen (TV)
Genre: F/M, I might be going to hell, Married Sex, Orgasm, Religion, Romance, The Wars of the Roses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-13 22:04:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11194362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/like_an_old_friend/pseuds/like_an_old_friend
Summary: A story of what happened between episode 4 and episode 5 of "The White Princess" and how Henry and Lizzie's relationship started to evolve. While Jacob Collins-Levy and Jodie Comer's performances were in my mind while writing this, there are also references to the historical Elizabeth of York and Henry Tudor.





	In Our Bedroom After the War

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously I do not own any of these people, characters, TV shows, or books.

The nursemaid had just taken Arthur away after the evening blessing, and the light turned violet over Westminster as Lizzie drew back the coverlet of her new bed.

Henry had just returned after several weeks away to establish his authority with the northern lords in the wake of the Lambert Simnel uprising. He had left the day after he'd ordered his mother to vacate the queen’s chambers, promising to return with fine new furnishings and bedclothes for Lizzie to fill the rooms. Sometimes, at unexpected moments, her lips burned with the memory of the passionate kiss they'd shared in the empty chamber, with Arthur between them, nestled in her arms.

However, she’d hardly had time to speak to Henry since his return. She had met him on the way to the Great Hall, where he would hold an audience and gloat again over his triumph. He had kissed their son’s brow and remarked to Lizzie: “He has grown. And in a only few weeks!”

His eyes had become sharper when he turned from the nursemaid who held Arthur. Two long fingers brushed down her stomach as he murmured, “It is good to see you.”

Intensity filled his eyes, and she even thought he might kiss her in front of all of his ministers and courtiers--and his mother.

“Your Grace.” Her cheeks had felt warm as she dropped a slow curtsy. She bit her lip, then met his gaze. “I've missed you, Henry.”

But before they had spoken another word, he had ordered the new furnishings brought into her chamber, and an army of servants to ensure everything was richly appointed for her to move in that very night. She had thought he might visit to inspect their work, but now it was late and she had not seen him since, not even for supper.

Through the window, the moon shimmered on the river and she knew why, in addition to being close to her son, the king’s mother had wanted these rooms. One window offered a vista of the Thames flowing down through London, and on the other side, a window provided a view of the graceful blue gardens. It occurred to her that she hadn't paid much attention to the view when these had been her mother's rooms. She had taken everything for granted then.

The cot near the fire creaked as the lady of her chamber settled herself down for the night. Lizzie yawned and began to climb into her bed when there was a sharp knock at the door and a page entered.

“Ahem,” the page said, seeing their informal state. “The king requests your immediate presence, your grace.”

Lizzie’s heart stuttered an odd little rhythm so that she could not speak.

“Apologies for the lateness of the request,” the page added quickly.

“Do not stay up for me, Lady Percy.” Lizzie smiled, and the lady curtsied her assent.

With her hands folded in front of her, Lizzie followed the page on bare feet down the passage and through the privy chamber to the king’s bed chamber. A guard opened the door and announced her arrival.

At first she could not see Henry in the dimness of the room. His bed was empty. He was not standing near the open windows or sitting at a desk as he sometimes was. But two chairs had been drawn near the fire. A small table with a jug of wine and a goblet stood between the chairs. Henry sat forward out of the larger chair. “Come,” he said. “Come sit by the fire with me.”

Lizzie curtsied before him as the page left the room. She took her seat, and he poured wine into her goblet himself before holding it out to her. “Tonight, we celebrate--my successful campaign in the north, the defeat of the pretender, _and_ your new rooms.” His voice grew softer as he added: “Finally we begin our life together.”

His gentle eyes triggered the little stutter again in her chest. She was not sure if her skin felt hot from the way his fingers had brushed hers as she took the glass, or if her chair was too close to the fire, or if one sip of claret was already having an effect.

His voice was soft as he asked, “How do you like your new rooms? Is everything to your taste?”

She swallowed and managed to say, “Perfectly so. Everything is very comfortable. You are so very generous, Henry.”

She reached across the table to squeeze his hand.

Surprisingly, his face fell; he peered at her as if his blue gaze was searching under her shift, into the core of her being, around the darkest corners of her heart. He was looking for the cause of her sudden deference, some hidden agenda.

Lizzie released his hand and clutched the goblet in her lap with both of hers. She searched her own heart, and was alarmed to understand that it was simply because she believed he deserved her respect. The past several months had taught her that perhaps he was not a monster after all. The realization brought a deeper blush to her cheeks.

A dry laugh fell from Henry’s lips. “You _are_ well-trained aren't you?” he said suddenly. He took a long draught of claret and then refilled his glass. “It is clear you were brought up to be a queen.”

Lizzie took a small sip of her own wine. “I was meant to be Queen of France. I was betrothed to the dauphin for years.”

“Oh yes,” Henry said, settling back in his chair. “I remember hearing of it when I was at French court.” He paused and added, “Your beauty and virtue were highly praised.”

She smiled at him, then ducked her head.

He gestured at her with his glass, adding, “The reports were not exaggerated, I assure you.”

Lizzie felt her insides burn. “You flatter me, Henry.”

She took a sip of claret and licked her top lip.

“Well, it didn't keep old King Louis from changing his mind. All those horrible lessons in Frankish history and French trade routes and Parisian needlework for naught.” As she finished, she tilted her head and quirked the corner of her mouth into a little smile.

He laughed and her insides felt warm, whether it was from the claret or his gentle blue gaze, she was not certain. Emboldened, she wanted to make him laugh again like that again.

“Can you imagine: me as the Queen of _France_?”

Henry returned her amused smile and leaned towards her over the arm of the chair. “Charles should envy me, that I have taken such a bride right from under his nose.”

“His _large_ nose,” Lizzie said, and they both burst into laughter.

She continued, “I hear that he is kind, but odd looking, and a fool. If I were his queen I'd be terribly bored, but I'd probably have 50 new robes and I’d be dripping _toujours avec bijous_ ...Ah, _Quelle domage_!”

She laughed again, but Henry’s face turned to ice and he slowly shrank away, leaning back into his chair with a dark expression. Inwardly, she berated herself. How had she forgotten to maintain her composure? How could she forget that his pride was so easily wounded? She had spoken freely as if he were Maggie. But her anger at herself faded when she realized she actually _cared_ if her words offended him. _How many things could change in a year. Or in five years._

There was a hardness to his voice when he spoke. “France is not as wealthy as people believe.”

He turned his face to her with his jaw set and his eyes glowing red in the firelight. He pressed his fingers into the arm of his chair. “England may be weak now from years of war, but I _will_ make it rich and powerful.” At that moment, with iron determination pouring from his countenance, she completely understood why men feared him, why they fought for him, and why some called him “the welsh dragon.” He looked fierce indeed.

“I will make you queen of the _greatest_ country in Europe.”

His intensity kindled a fire low in her belly and her heart stuttered again. Spellbound, she clutched the claret glass with trembling fingers. “I--I believe you will, Henry,” she said.

He blinked at her for a moment until his eyelids and the muscles around his mouth relaxed into an expression Lizzie couldn't identify.

“Come here,” he murmured.

“Where?” Now her whole body was trembling. “I am already by your side.”

“Here.” He gestured to his lap.

She swallowed hard as she recognized his expression. _Lust_.

But it wasn't the angry lust with which he had forced himself upon her in the past. It wasn't the hard, indifferent lust with which he had pulled back the bed clothes to silently order her to ride him. His eyes were full of supplication; his lips were soft and open.

She drained her glass, set it on the table, lifted her chin, and rose from the chair. She stood before him, heart racing as she remembered how he had caressed her in bed one morning--before his mother had interrupted. _Perhaps this will be pleasurable,_ she thought. From the open window, she heard the sound of the wind rustling in the tall grass along the riverbank. Or it was the sound of her own blood rushing in her veins.

She moved to straddle him.

“Wait.” He grabbed her waist and then set down his own goblet. “Will you please take off your shift so I can... see you?”

Her eyebrows flew up and her breathing quickened.

“We have been married a year and I have never seen your body,” he said.

She wondered if he could see the way her hands shook.

“You always wear your shift,” he added so softly she almost couldn't hear it.

“Help me, please,” she breathed. “Usually my ladies…”

Immediately he was up, standing so close that she could feel each of his exhalations on her cheek. His fingers began gathering the fabric at her waist. The fine material slid up over her thighs, then her hips. She lifted her arms and with one upward tug, he pulled the shift over her head. He dropped it onto the floor and exhaled slowly.

“You are so beautiful,” he muttered.

His hands fell to her shoulders, then they traced the curve of her breasts. She sighed with pleasure when his thumbs skimmed her nipples. His eyes followed his hands over her belly, still rounded from the months Arthur had grown inside of her. He continued around her hips, her thighs.

His fingers dipped between her legs. She whimpered as his touch lingered there, moving in circles.

“Turn around,” he whispered. “I want to see all of you.” She complied, staring into the fire as he gathered her hair and pushed it over her shoulder. Curiously, the gesture made needles of fear prick her heart. His fingers rose and fell with the hills and valleys of her spine; his hands followed the curves of her arse. She felt his erection throb against her hip and she almost recoiled. The needles stabbed faster as she became almost certain that he meant to bend her over and take her from behind, as if she were a mare or a common whore, instead of a princess of royal blood.

She refused to allow it.

Abruptly, before he could stop her or protest, she twisted in his arms, pressed her breasts against his chest, and drew his bottom lip between her teeth. She tugged it and bit down, part of her hoping to draw blood. In surprise, he encircled her wrists with his hands, his grip was tight at first, but he relaxed when she sighed, then released his lip and thrust her tongue into his mouth. He did not immediately return her kiss, but after a few seconds, he reciprocated with enthusiasm.

When they finally separated, chests heaving for air, and he rested his forehead on hers and exhaled her name.

It made her brave.

She looked up at him under her eyelashes.

“Your turn,” she purred. “Take off your clothes.”

For a moment, his mouth hung open slightly and she thought he was about to protest. But he stepped back and pulled his shirt over his head.

A bright pink line on his left shoulder caught her eye. She brushed her fingertips across the scar and he stiffened at her touch.

“Lovell’s knife,” he explained.

With a twinge of guilt, she bowed her head, and pressed her lips to it. They repeated the ceremony for each scar--

His waist: “Hunting accident, in Brittany.”

His forearm: “Training injury. Jasper felt awful about it.”

His elbow: “Lord Herbert’s son pushed me down and called me a ‘dirty Lancastrian’…Stop, Lizzie.”

She hid her smile with her hand and whispered an apology.

His neck. Lizzie feathered her lips on the white mark and looked up at him. His face became drawn and his eyes unfocused, as if he saw something far away.  “A battle with your father’s envoys. In Saint Malo.”

“I remember hearing of it,” she whispered.

Whatever he saw, whatever memory hung before his eyes, seemed to frighten him to the core because he gripped her arms with shaking hands.

“He wanted to bring you back,” she continued gently. “To marry me, I think.”

Her words knocked him from his trance.

“To execute me,” he said darkly.

The look on his face made her heart swell with sympathy, and she knew he was probably right. He had survived so much; perhaps he _had_ been chosen by God. She kissed his lips, then trailed her hand down his chest, over his stomach.

“Your breeches,” she murmured. His eyes fastened on her face as he moved her hand aside and untied the front. He pushed the garment off his hips. Slowly, he stepped out of it, kicked it away with his foot. For the first time in their marriage, they stood naked with each other.

She walked around him in a circle, taking in his form. His broad shoulders gave way to a muscular and well formed stomach and back with a narrow waist and hips. His arse was muscular and powerful. Though thin, his arms and legs were defined. He looked strong.

“Well? How do I compare?” His tone was edged with bitterness as she stepped back in front of him.

Anger tightened in her throat. _You have won!_ She wanted to shout. _He lies in a shallow grave that you dug for him_! Was there no end to Henry's feelings of inferiority? But she pressed her lips together and forced the words down.

He must have sensed her agitation. _“_ I am sorry, Lizzie,” he murmured. His thumb caressed her jaw.

She took three deep breaths. _He is your husband. There is good in him._ Pressing her lips together, she reached out and touched the place over his heart. Under her palm, she could feel its strong, steady beating; the sensation made her sad for those whose hearts were still--her father, her brothers, her uncles-- _._

A memory, a lesson from long ago on translating Latin from a big, heavy book: “ _Arise my darling, my beautiful one and come along. For behold, the winter is past; The rain is over and gone.”_

Henry’s fingers wove into the hair near her face and he ducked his head to peer in her eyes. In a tender voice he whispered, “Lizzie? I did not mean to upset you…” while his thumbs smoothed the tiny curls along her hairline.

The sadness welled up, then trickled away, leaving tiny, surprising sparks of joy with each thump of Henry's heart under her fingertips. _The father of my child. My sweet, precious Arthur._

With watery eyes, she looked up into his face.

“What must I do, Henry, to convince you that you are a great man? That you are worthy of the crown?”

Never breaking eye contact, she grasped his hand, brought it to her mouth, kissed it, and whispered, “Richard is nothing to me now. _You_ are my king.”

His nostrils flared as he lifted his chin in triumph; Bosworth was only the first victory. His eyes searched her face for a moment--testing the authenticity of her words. Evidently, he was pleased at what he saw, for he seized her face in a spasm of emotion and said, “Oh, you are a magnificent wife!”

“ _He has brought me to his banquet hall, and his banner over me is love.”_

His kiss consumed her; his hands were everywhere on her body, kneading her skin.

Then her mouth was on his neck and his face and their hips moved together as he thrust his cock between her thighs, near her opening. She was surprised at the burning need for him, for his hands and his mouth all over her skin.

“...you shall be the vessel…” Words eddied from his mouth like water around a fallen branch on the river as he gasped between kisses: “...the mother...of the...dynasty I will build...the Tudor dynasty…”

His half-moaned words and his hands pressing her flesh stoked the fire in her belly into a roaring conflagration.

She hissed against his mouth: “I want you inside of me.”

She grabbed his hand and pulled him backwards, until the backs of her thighs hit the bed. They both fell to the bed in a passionate kiss. Without breaking eye contact, she arranged herself with her head on the pillow and her legs spread wide.

His gaze raked over her from head to toe, and then he mounted her, settling his hips between hers. He entered her slowly.

He kissed her again and began moving inside her. He would push deep, a powerful thrust, and then withdraw slowly so that she could feel every inch of him leaving her. He rubbed the area above her opening with his thumb and then repeated the thrusts with the same slow withdrawal until moans escaped her lips.

He increased the pace of his movements then, and it did not take long before stars danced in her vision and she felt like she was rising. “Henry!” She stifled a cry on his shoulder. _Am I dying?_ The thought flew through her brain, chased away by Henry's groans and his shuddering body, moving faster, deeper inside of hers _._ He breathed her name, her full name, each syllable dripping from his lips like a prayer. “ _Elizabeth_ _.”_ She squeezed his sides and  her eyes flew tightly shut as the stars merged in a violent cascade of light, and everything inside her exploded in a spasm of ecstasy. Her soul encompassed Henry, the room, the palace, the whole universe. She cried out with the joy of her expansiveness. Henry jerked and moaned, then his body collapsed on her and his forehead fell to her shoulder. He panted in rhythm with her own desperate breaths as the waves of ecstasy ebbed.

After a few seconds, he pulled out of her and flopped onto his back.

She turned to face him. “What _was_ that?” She asked breathlessly.

He smiled and said, “What do you mean?”

“I thought I was going to die...but…” she looked around for the right words “...it felt like I was going to Heaven!”

He jerked his head to the ceiling and laughed. “Good,” he said finally.

She stared at him, eyes wide.

He turned on his side and propped his head up on an elbow to face her. “It is called _la Petite Mort_ for a reason.” He smiled and covered her hand with his. He was silent for a moment. “I am...sorry...that I have not been a good husband to you before this night.” His eyes found hers and after a pause he said, “I want you to feel that way every time.”

She blushed and looked away.

With a soft kiss on her cheek, he stood and began putting his clothes on.

“Besides,” he said, pulling his shirt over his head. “Some say the woman's pleasure leads to conception.”

“Henry--”

“We need another boy. In case Arthur--”

“Henry, don't!”

“I am not ill-wishing him, like your mother. I am being pragmatic.”

He tossed her shift onto the bed near her legs.

She looked at the spot where it lay, then at him. “Am I not allowed to stay in your bed tonight?”

He gestured to his desk. “I must work.”

“But--”

He leveled his gaze at her and his voice became imperious. “It is an arduous endeavor to bring the many traitors of this realm to justice.”

“Yorks, you mean,” she said with a frown.

“Supporters of that York bitch’s pretender. Yes.”

She swallowed and stared at a spot on the coverlet, feeling hot waves of rejection. She knew what it was to be a queen, that a king had many duties and not always time for his wife, but she feared she would never get used to Henry's moodiness, his propensity for sudden coldness. What if he never grew to trust her completely to rule by his side?

He softened slightly as he returned to her and kissed her forehead. “I thought you might want to sleep in your new bed…”

She clutched his hand and said, “Promise that when you finish your work, you shall come to me. We shall sleep together in my new bed. _Our_ new bed.”

He pressed a kiss her forehead and went to his desk. “You may go,” he said, sorting a pile of documents.

He didn't look at her again, even when she struggled alone to pull on her shift or when she walked out of the room, closing the door too loudly behind her.

Though her new bed was comfortable, Lizzie did not sleep.

She ached all over as she lay staring at the thin crescents of moonlight on the river’s surface, and she could feel his fluid leaking out of her, dampening her shift and reminding her of their encounter each time she moved her thighs. She reached down and clamped her hand there; one of her ladies had told her once that holding the man’s seed inside would help with conception. With a sigh, she prayed that another boy would grow inside her. Pregnancy was difficult and labor was arduous and horrible, but she would do anything to make Henry happy, she realized with a start. _Anything_. And she thought perhaps that the ache in her chest was a sprout of love, pushing through the soil, starting to blossom for him.

The moonlight had almost disappeared, and the abbey bell had just finished tolling Lauds when she heard her chamber door creak and the sudden rustle of Lady Percy sitting up on the cot near the fire.

“But she is sleeping…” The lady's voice was indignant and thick with slumber.

“Leave us, please.” Lizzie's heart jumped as Henry’s firm voice cut through the darkness.

“Oh! Yes, of course, your grace.” And Lizzie listened to Lady Percy’s quick footsteps and the gentle thud as she closed the door behind her.

The bed shifted when Henry climbed into it. Lizzie shut her eyes, feigning sleep. She felt him slide closer to her and then the weight of his arm fell heavy on her waist.

Her hand found his in the darkness, and she closed her fingers around his thumb, like a child.

“You're awake,” he whispered in surprise.

She turned so that she was facing him.

“I was waiting for you. It has been difficult to sleep without you these past weeks.”

His eyes shone in the moonlight. “I'm here now.”

“I am on your side, Henry,” she reminded him softly. “All I want is to help you, support you. And to make you happy.”

“You do.” He ran a hand through her hair and the gesture soothed her.

She sighed and nestled as near to him as she could, head tucked under his chin, soaking in the warmth of his body and letting the regular rhythm of his breathing calm her. As she began to drift to sleep, she prayed that she could be as magnificent a wife and queen as Henry believed her to be, and that their union would be long and loving and fruitful.

Just when consciousness was waning, she thought he whispered in her ear, “I pray every night for God to make me worthy of you.” Then, she thought she felt a kiss on her head. “Sleep well, my love.” And Lizzie relaxed into the oblivion of sleep with a smile, knowing that her prayers would be answered.

_“Put me like a seal on your heart, like a seal on your arm, for love is as strong as death.”_

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from a song by Stars.
> 
> The quotes that Lizzie remembers are from "The Song of Solomon" (or "Song of Songs") in the Old Testament.


End file.
